I’ve been thinking about excess that wants to be mistaken for care, curation, almost moral attentiveness. How it borrows the language of virtue, and calls itself intentional, presents itself as edited, curated, almost ethical.

There is a photograph of a woman eating toast at a kitchen table in 1976. The toast is simply toast. Fifty years later, breakfast has become unrecognisable. Not the food itself, but everything surrounding it. The decision-making apparatus. The expert guidance required. The moral weight of choosing correctly.

My son will grow up in a world where culture is platform-native. Where he can learn thosai from YouTube, tanghulu from TikTok, pasta from Italian grandmothers who've monetised their nostalgia. Where "traditional" means whatever the algorithm surfaces.

I'm cataloguing my recipes for Keith, the one person growing up on my experiments. No one taught me to cook. I refuse to follow recipes for reasons I can't explain. My creations wouldn't please most people. But Keith eats what I make. Maybe someday he'll wonder what his mother was thinking at the stove.

When did amateur become an insult? From the Latin amator: lover. Someone who does something for love of it. The professionalisation of food culture has given us access to knowledge, but it's also made us feel like impostors in our own kitchens.